At full speed, the gurney slammed through the green double doors, bursting them open from the seam in the middle. The medics wheeled it to a stop in the middle of the sterile, hexagonal shaped sick bay. They talked animatedly amongst themselves, relaying information at a rapid rate. One checked the drip that was attached the Brogan’s arm, while another checked his spiking vitals.

Brogan strained at the bindings at his wrists and ankles, his spine arching unnaturally as if they were the only things keeping him down. The bindings were tight, but the leather creaked as if they threatened to break at any moment. His eyes were wide, wild and unseeing, his mouth moving as he yelled. From her position at one of the far walls, away from the milling throng of medical personnel, Monika could hear his words clearly, though she wished she could not.

Monika wrapped her arms around her stomach and shivered. There had been so much blood when she and the others had finally caught up with Brogan. Claw marks littered his shredded flesh, and he had already been muttering and shaking. But he had been alive.

The medical staff moved as a practiced unit, lifting Brogan from the gurney and placing him onto the operating table despite his trashing. More equipment was wheeled next to the table, and connected to his body.

“Let me out,” he screamed, his voice raw.

Zeke fidgeted nervously in his place next to Monika, scratching at his jowl. His ears pricked up a second later, and his head swung to the opposite wall, where there was a smaller door to the medical bay. Monika glanced over too, just as Director Caine strode through, Doc Frasier at his side. Frasier was amongst one of the few members of M.I.16’s staff who did not have a background in military or intelligence, and it showed in the soft curves of his aged face, and the plumpness of his belly, but he had a hardness to his eyes that spoke of experience. He lifted his glasses from where they hung on a chain around his neck, propping them on his nose. He gave one last glance at Director Caine, his expression one of frustration, before heading to join his team.

“Agent Wells,” Director Caine said as he joined her and her team. “You have a report?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, tearing her eyes from Brogan’s thrashing form with difficulty. “We found the ‘wolf, but… but Brogan chased after it alone. We think it must have cornered him. Zeke managed to drive the thing off, but Brogan had already been attacked.”

Director Caine’s eye widened. Monika knew the director well enough that that small reaction on another man would have been a shout of surprise. “He’s infected?” Caine demanded.

Brogan let out a scream; a long, blood curling cry that went on far too long, and cut off as a high pitched howl.

“It seems so,” Monika admitted.

Caine shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He gave one last long look at Monika, then crossed the room to stand at Doc Frasier’s side.

“What have you got for me?” he said.

“He’s a mess,” he said, not looking up from where he was busy checking Brogan’s wounds. “He looks like he’s been put through a shredder. I’d say I’m surprised he’s still alive, but given what happened to him, I can’t. A lot of the smaller wounds look like they’re already starting to heal, but the one of his chest is deep. Looks like it cut right to the bone.” He shook his head, before barking a command to one of the medical staff. Only then did he glance up at Caine. “We can save his body, Weston, but his mind…” He trailed off with an apologetic shrug.

“Just do what you can, Doc. Leave the rest to me.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Frasier insisted. “He’s fighting a losing battle against the infection. At rough estimate, I’d say he’s eighty percent gone already. There’s no cure. And you know what has to be done better than any of us.”

Caine met the other man’s eyes coolly. “And I said leave the rest to me. Do you job, Doc.”

Without another word, he turned and strode away from the medical staff, leaving Doc Frasier shaking his head. Caine gestured to one of his ever present aides. “Get me Leila.” He held up a hand quickly to forestall the man’s words. “Yes, yes, I know she’s in the Call Centre; you go in and get her, and bring her to medical on the double. And don’t let her dally. Tell her now means now.”

As the aide scurried from the room – they always seemed to scurry – Caine glanced back over at the straining form of Brogan. The man was muttering again. “Feast, feast, feast on flesh, flay the flesh, sip the blood, drink the blood, bathe in the blood.” Monika blocked the words from her mind, concentrating on the instructions coming from Doc Frasier instead.

After what must have been an eternity the door opened again, and Leila Paris hustled in. She wore the long white robes of the rest of the Call Centre, the fabric almost trailing on the floor behind her. The young woman’s eyes were wide with confusion as she made her way to Director Caine’s side. The man stood watching the medics work, and did not appear to notice she had entered. As always, Leila chose to stand there waiting patiently rather than speaking up, staring at her hands clamped before her. Eventually, Caine’s head turned, and he nodded upon seeing her.

“Leila, good,” he said. “We have a problem.” He gestured to the table. Leila made that small O with her mouth, as if seeing the milling medical staff for the first time. Monika would not have been surprised if it wasn’t the first time either. “Tell me what you can do,” Director Caine continued.

“What’s the…” she began, then swallowed. “What’s the matter with him?”

“Lycanthrope Curse,” Caine said simply. Leila took a small half step backwards.

“B-b-b-but why are… Is it a good idea to be trying to heal him?”

Director Caine crossed his arms over his chest, not responding right away. With a touch less his usual commanding demeanour, he said, “Look, Leila, I know there is no cure once the curse takes full hold. But it hasn’t yet. So tell me, what can you do?”

Leila flicked another glance at the thrashing Brogan. The medical staff had removed most of his clothing now, to work on his wounds, and sweat glistened on his skin. He cried out again in defiance, muscles screaming in protest at their incarceration. Leila gave a small, barely perceptible, shake of her head before lowering her gaze.

“Really?” Caine said. “Leila, you spend all your free time reading spell books. You know the contents of our Library cover to cover, which I’m pretty sure would take most people several lifetimes to get through. And you’re telling me in all that time you have never come across one mention of anything that could help?”

Leila swallowed again, shuffling her feet. “No, I…” she began, cheeks reddening. Her lips quivered, working as if she had continue speaking. Then she glanced over at Brogan again, before quickly averting her eyes. “T-t-there might be… that is, I don’t know if, if it w-w-would work, sir.”

“Leila.” The commanding tone was back in the director’s voice.

“I don’t know,” she reiterated. “I don’t know if a-anyone actually managed to get it to work. It was j-just a… a partial shred of text. It m-might be too late already. There’s no guarantee.”

“What do you need?” Caine said.

“Nothing. There’s… it’s just a spell. But I need space.”

“Get started then.” The order was clear in his tone, and began clearing Doc and his staff out of the way. Frasier argued the point with him, but Caine just rolled right over his protests.

Leila stepped close to the straining body of Brogan. His screaming and muttered had grown silent now, though he still strained arms and legs against their bonds. He glared at Leila, eyes feral, teeth bared. A dangerous growl rose from his throat.

“We should just put him down,” Chase muttered, arms folded roughly across his chest. He stood with his back to the rest of the room, but was watching over his shoulder. His face was calm, but his eyes burned with hate. Monika could not blame him. “Rules are rules,” he continued.

“Rules are rules,” Chase said again. “You know what a ‘wolf can do. Should be put down before he gets loose and…”

“Outside,” Monika said, cutting the man off. He blinked at her in confusion.

“What?”

“Outside Chase. Now.”

He glared at her now, but she met it evenly, refusing to back down. After a moment, he huffed in anger and annoyance, before storming from the room, making sure he slammed the door loudly behind him.

Only when Monika waited until she was sure he’d left the medical area completely did she return her attention to Leila. Now the young woman stood at the head of the table, a pace away from Brogan’s head. He still strained to reach her, thick muscles in his neck standing out, but she did not appear to notice, her gaze turned inwards. The she closed her eyes and let out a long breathe, before raising her arms before her. A golden shimmer began to dance on the tips of her outstretched fingers, swaying to a soft breeze Monika could not feel. The shimmer pulsed out, like a heartbeat, each throb increasing its distance from Leila’s hands, reaching out in a circle from her. The circle rose, arching into a dome, until it covered Leila and the operating table completely, like a golden bubble, just transparent enough to make everything inside blurry and the sounds echo as if coming from underwater.

Then Leila’s eyes flashed open, pure white now, clear of iris and pupil. Her face was a mask of strain, sweat beading her forehead, and her breathing came laboured and rough. Colours began to dance through the golden bubble, like the shimmer of rainbows across glass. They swirled, twisting around each other. Faster then spun, faster and faster and faster, spreading out across the golden dome. The colours flashed, gaining in strength, distorting the image further. They pulsed like a heartbeat.

Brogan’s thrashing increased as the colours gained in strength. Then suddenly his spine arched, and his mouth opened wide. A black smoky tendril emerged from between his parted lips, like some demonic breath. Slowly it crept further and further from his body, growing in intensity as it did, until the smoke coalesced into something thicker, more solid. The black trail merged with the swirling colours, fighting them. The colours faded slightly, growing weaker, even as the black tentacle grew stronger, solidifying its dominance.

Suddenly Leila flung her arms wide again, and a white bar of purest energy burst from her eyes, right towards the heart of the blackness. It struck that darkness, and there was a great blinding flash of light and the deep booming of thunder.

Afterimages scorched themselves across Monika’s vision as she blinked away heavily watering eyes, scrubbing at them with her fists. When her vision slowly returned to normal, she saw that the bubble surrounding the operating table had gone. As too was the tendril of evil. Leila stood as she had before, swaying gently. Then her legs buckled beneath her. Monika was already moving, catching the other woman before she could hit the cold floor. She knelt by the operating table, cradling the mage’s head and shoulders across her lap.

“Leila,” she said, pushing her hair from her face. The young woman’s eyes were closed, and she was panting heavily. “Leila, are you okay?”

Slowly, Leila’s lids flickered open. Monika repeated her question, and Leila gave a small nod. Then she swallowed. “We…,” she began, before licking suddenly dry lips. “We need to f-find something that can contain that.” She raised one weakened arm, trembling visibly. Monika followed her pointed finger, looking above the operating table.

A small orb hung there, roughly the size of a tennis ball; an orb of swirling black liquid.

The creature that lay dozing in the wide clearing was not at all how Tommy had expected it to look. Ever since he’d been little, he’d had an image in his mind of what a werewolf was supposed to look like, based mainly on old TV shows and movies. He’d imagined it to be bulky, like Zeke, with probably grey or brown fur, and certainly more wolfen features than his new companion’s feline ones. The creature here though…

It was supple, thin and elongated even when curled into a ball, with short jet black fur that seemed almost to be part of its flesh. The only thing Tommy had got right was that it had a muzzle, but even this defied his expectations; it was long and pointed, almost like a drill or a spike, set between the slits of its closed eyes. Two pointed ears sat high on the top of its head, twitching gently as the beast slept. Its forelegs were stretched out languidly onto the grass before it, and Tommy caught the glint of moonlight on razor sharp claws.

Tommy scanned the rest of the small clearing. It was roughly one hundred feet across, and there were a couple of metal park benches just behind where the creature slumbered, next to an overfilled bin, and what looked like a repository for animal waste. A pathway, made of the same loose soil and woodchips as all the others, ran through the middle of the clearing, while a tall metal lamppost, which would not have looked all that out of place on the other side of a wardrobe, stood darkened over everything else. The only light, as far as he could make out, came from the glistening moon that crept towards the horizon almost directly above the clearing, bathing the monstrous creature with a brilliant grey glow.

His eyes narrowed as they made out something by the side of the werewolf, an oddly shaped mound, trying to make out what it was. Then he blinked as recognition struck him.

“My God,” he breathed, an edge to his voice. “Is that…?”

“Yes,” came a soft growl. Chase, crouched next to Tommy and glaring at the creature, bristled with barely contained emotion. “Its last meal.”

Half chewed bones littered the torn clothing of the mound, and Tommy could make out a plain black handbag not far from the remains. He felt white heat rise to his face, and heard his teeth grind so loud he was surprised no one else could. He struggled to keep his stomach down, when all it wanted to do was empty itself.

“That’s not right,” he muttered, voice oddly distant.

“It’s why we do what we do, Brogan.” Wells’ voice was not unkind, making him glance over in shock. She eyed him intently, that weighing look in her eyes. He nodded, and she nodded back, understood his meaning; Yes, something needs to be done about this.

“Okay,” she continued, “Here’s the plan. Chase, you and Brogan take the left, wait for our signal to—“

Tommy was already moving in that direction when the dry twig snapped loudly beneath his feet.

All sound ceased. From the rustling of wildlife, to the soft whistle of the breeze, every noise cut out in an instant. Tommy’s eyes widened, and sweat beaded his forehead as he faced the others, each one wearing a mask of horror that he knew must match his own expression.

Tommy licked his lips. “Okay,” he breathed as softly as he could. “Maybe it didn’t hear that.”

Zeke glanced to the side, into the clearing, and his face dropped. “Oh crap,” the big guajer muttered. Tommy turned to look, and his stomach lurched.

The clearing stood empty.

“Into the open,” Wells yelled, voice loud and commanding. She was already moving forward, bursting free of the brush, her weapon raised. “And get those lights back on.”

The others obeyed in an instant, converging in the centre of the clearing. They stood back to back, eyes sweeping the woods around them. The trees remained deathly silent, though Tommy could hear little above the pulsating rhythm of his blood, loud in his ears.

Seconds passed, agonisingly slowly, but still nothing happened.

“Is it…” Tommy began, before swallowing the lump in his throat. “Is it still there?”

The small movement was enough of a distraction. Like a black arrow, the werewolf shot from the foliage to Tommy’s right, directly for Wells, its outreaching claws seeking her flesh. At the last second she must have sensed it coming, because she threw herself aside just before it reached her, the claws only succeeding in tearing a long stretch out of her coat. An instant later and the thing would have disembowelled her where she stood.

Time stretched out. In his mind, seconds passed in minutes, in hours. Wells rolled with her dive, the assault rifle slipping free from her grasp. Zeke roared, jerking his lager, modified, SA80 towards the moving monster, squeezing a thick finger on the trigger. The muzzle flashed bright once, then again, and again, followed by an explosion of noise.

Nimbly, the werewolf dodge aside the streaking hot rounds, twirling like a ballerina despite its size, bounding left and right but still coming forwards. Chase opened fire, screaming in pure rage, but the creature lunged to the right, landing on the raised back of the park bench. The bench creaked for a second under the werewolf’s weight, before it leaped from its perch, high into the clear night sky.

It hung there, silhouetted by the heavy pale moon, before reaching the peak of its jump and plummeting at speed down again. Directly towards Tommy.

He tried to raise his weapon, but his arms felt like lead blocks, his legs like jelly, and he knew in that instant that he was not going to be fast enough. This was it, this was the day he died. The thought stuck through his body with alarming clarity, and he found himself accepting the end. Sharp claws flashed as they reached for him, when suddenly Tommy found himself shoved roughly aside, sprawling on the cold grass.

Time sped rapidly back to normal.

He scrambled away as fast as he could before slipping around onto his butt. He looked back, expecting to see the creature stalking him, but instead saw his saviour. Zeke stood tall, his back to Tommy, and facing the werewolf down. The beast slunk low to the ground, all four limps cocked and ready to attack, and a growl on its inhuman mouth. Yellow eyes glinted with nothing but hatred and malice. Evil, Tommy thought. Its eyes hold nothing but evil.

The creature lunged for Zeke, who slammed a two-handed clubbing blow to the side of the werewolf’s head, knocking it off course. It spun with unnatural delicacy even as it touched the ground, launching itself back at Zeke. The gaujar opened arms wide, this time wrapping the onrushing monster in a huge bear hug. Zeke twisted and, with a great feat of strength, sent the monster flying. Again, the beast landed daintily on the ground, spinning nimble back to face Zeke.

But Zeke was not alone. At his side were Chase and Wells, the latter holding her SIG aimed towards the werewolf. The beast hesitated, and in that instant, Tommy was to his feet, adding his rifle to theirs. Those evil yellow eyes moved from person to person, weighing, measuring. Tommy could imagine it assessing how quickly it could move against how fast they could all open fire.

The creature opened its mouth, revealing rows of razor sharp canines, and its tongue lolled from the side of its maw. It reminded Tommy of those people who swore blind that their dogs were smiling at them; it really did look like it was grinning.

Then it turned on its heel, springing back towards the tree line in sharp zigzags, while Foxtrot opened fire. In seconds, it was gone from sight.

“No,” Tommy cried, not even realising he had shouted. Before his mind caught up with the fact, he was racing forwards, heading towards the place the werewolf had last been seen. Rage built in him, rage at what the creature had done, and at what it had attempted to do to him. He could not let it get away. Not knowing what it could do to some other innocent person. It needed to be stopped.

As he entered the tree line, he heard Wells yell his name, but ignored it. There was only one thing on his mind. It’s not getting away.

Deeper into the woods he followed it, not even needing the tracking skills his mother had imparted on him; the trail the werewolf left behind was a mile wide. And in a straight line too, as if someone had dragged a knife blade through the trees. A straight line, heading back out into the rest of the city. He redoubled his pace, ignoring the braches and twigs that caught on his flesh and clothing, tearing both, ignoring the roots that tripped him and sent him spilling forwards, off balance for a second before he could right himself. None of that stopped him, for he knew if the werewolf reached the concrete jungle, they would never find it again.

A moment later he burst from the foliage into a small grassy area, pausing a moment, panting hard. His heart pounded in his chest, a strong, solid rhythm. Before him was a short wall, a little over waist high, of crumbling red bricks, and over that lay a deserted street, bathed by the glow of a dozen streetlights. He raced towards the wall, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, and leapt, vaulting over the wall. He landed in a crouch on the other side, head snapping up and searching both sides of the thankfully deserted street. Where…?

Down to the left he saw it, ducking into an alley way. Tommy gripped his rifle in his fists again, and sprang to his feet, racing towards the alley. As he reached the mouth, he flattened himself against the wall. Carefully, he inched his head over the edge, peering inside. The alleyway ran for a little distance, about 100 feet, before ending abruptly. On that far wall was a single door, painted a deep red, but shut. Above the door was a single bulb, flickering erratically, casting long and deep shadows down the rest of the alleyway. To one side lay a large metal dumpster, overflowing with trash, some of which spilled to the floor beside it, mingling with discarded bin bags. The floor was littered with more trash – broken bottles, discarded wrappers, half eaten food – and dirt, and a rat rushed suddenly across the distance, making Tommy start.

Careful, he told himself. Be careful.

Cautiously, he edged around the corner, creeping forward into the alley, his rifle leading the way. He tread carefully, so as not to disturb anything that might break beneath him – he’d learnt his lesson quickly. The beam of his torch swept from side to side as he peered into every darkened space, into every nook and every cranny. Onwards, ever towards the dumpster. When he came in line with it he paused again, steeling himself. Then he darted forward, snapping his weapon towards the other side of the dumpster.

Nothing.

He let out the long breath that he had not even realised he held. He knew he had seen the werewolf enter the alley, knew it hadn’t gone through the door at the far end, but if it was not hiding behind the dumpster, then where…?

From the corner of his eye he saw a shadow drop silently from the rooftops, back at the mouth of the alley. The shadow landed effortlessly. As Tommy spun, the werewolf raised itself effortlessly onto hind legs, standing more like a man than the beast it had appeared in the clearing.

“Alone at last,” it said, that wicked grin back on its face.

**

“Dammit, Brogan, wait!”

Monika raced through the trees, Chase at her heels, trying to keep up with Zeke. The big guajar bounded a pace further from the humans with each one of his long strides. Damn fool, she thought, rushing off like that after a werewolf. Branches and twigs poked at her as she ran, and there was a terrible rip as one caught the tear in her jacket from the ‘wolf’s claws, slashing it open further. She was lucky she’d managed to avoid those claws, kept them from doing the same to her flesh. You didn’t want what would happen if those claws got you.

Zeke loped ahead of her, pulling away, and a few seconds later he rushed out of the woodlands and into open space. He paused a moment, ears pricked up and head swivelling this way and that, stopped long enough for Chase and Monika to catch him. As soon as they were by his side, though, Zeke was off again, leaping a low wall with each. Monika’s breath was ragged as she ploughed on after him.

Zeke was still bounding across the road when the sudden burst of gunfire, wild and rapid, caught Monika’s ears. Flashes lit the mouth of an alleyway a little way down the street. Then both noise and light were cut off, and a man screamed.

“Fuck,” breathed Chase, still right by her side. Zeke had reached the alley, but Monika pushed herself to run faster than she had before, despite the dropping feeling in her heart. Zeke rounded the corner, weapon up, and started to fire. Bullets tore into the alley, but his spray was wild, darting left and right and up and down, as if his target moved with lightning speed. The humans reached the alley just as Zeke stopped firing, his feline features creased with unmistakable anger.

The alley was empty; the ‘wolf gone. But something lay in the middle of the floor, a rumpled heap in a pool of rapidly spreading blood. Chase and Zeke kept their weapons up as Monika silently moved towards the broken shape, knowing what she would see before the light of her torch even revealed it.

“No,” she breathed, staring in horror at the shredded and bloody skin. “Not again.”

Constable Hung hated the night shifts. It was, she reasoned, probably a bad attitude for a police officer to have, but from her experiences the nights were when the worst things happened; drunken fights, domestic disturbances, and drug deals were not known to be common in the light of the day. With the setting sun the temperature, already low at this time of year, had plunged dramatically, forcing her to shift from one foot to the other in an effort to keep blood pumping into her extremities, and her breath to bloom thickly each time she exhaled.

Thankfully at this time of the morning there were not that many civilians milling around on the other side of the blue police barricade tape that served to keep them out of the gravel carpark. Still, she kept a half eye on them. You could never be too careful when the Great British Public were rubbernecking; someone would always try to cross the tape, and if the media got wind of this she just knew they’d be ones to try.

Behind her, and surrounding the rough grounded carpark, the woodlands sat dark, the shapes of the trees making disturbing silhouettes. During the day, the woodlands would be somewhere people would walk their dogs, or jog, or follow the trails to the wide clearings for picnics and games in the sun, away from the noise and bustle of The City. Now even the few scant lamps, merging with the flashing lights of the police cars, did little more than make the shadows deeper, and the dark spaces wider. The sort of things people got up to at this when the light had faded… well, it wasn’t something you’d discuss with your mother.

Not that she actually knew what was going on in there, not right now at least. They’d been told to close the area off and keep people away. Someone high up had issued those orders, along with another; to await the arrival of a special branch of law enforcement that Hung, with her three years in the service, had never heard of. She didn’t know when they’d be arriving either, so until then, it was her task to keep people from going past the barricade.

Scant moments later a plain white panel van appeared, its headlights illuminating the road as it neared the carpark. Hung shook her head. This wouldn’t be the first time tonight she’d turned away a vehicle of civilians who had been heading to the woodland area for… recreational… reasons.

The driver stopped the van just shy of the tape, but didn’t turn off the engine. Hung moved to the driver’s side, while the woman behind the wheel rolled down her window. She was a stern looking woman, with light brown hair pulled into a ponytail, and wearing a business suit beneath her heavy winter coat. Hung glanced quickly at the passenger, a needlessly too-handsome man wearing less formal clothing, who seemed to be staring at the woods with a hungry intensity.

“You’ll have to move the van out of the way,” Hung said. “And keep back, this area is off limits.”

Hung was already nodding, though something of this whole situation didn’t sit well with her. Her brow furrowed. The woman’s badge matched what she’d said, and the constable had been told to await their arrival. But the van was nondescript, and the occupants – well, the man at least – didn’t have the look of any police officer he’d even seen. The back of the van was separated from the front by a full panel, with whatever was in there shielded from Hung’s sight.

“Is there a problem, Constable?” the woman said, her voice that of someone used to command.

Something’s not quite right, about all of this, Hung thought. “No, no,” she said instead.

“Good,” replied the woman. “Now move these people back. I don’t want to see so much as a hint of another person within fifty feet of this place.”

“Yes ma’am,” Hung responded, before stepping away from the van, and lifting the police tape up. A moment later, the van moved forward, under the tape, and into the darkness of the carpark, the gravel crunching noisily under the weight of its tyres.

Hung turned to the other constables. “Alright,” she said, gesturing to the small congregation on the other side of the barrier. “You heard the lady. Let’s get this lot moved back.”

**

When Wells reached the far end of the carpark, she turned the van around so that the rear end was facing away from the police line they had just passed. Tommy jumped out, the loose gravel stones crunching under his sneakers. The carpark was a large, almost circular flat piece of ground, roughly twenty meters in diameter. A short wooden barricade made of thick logs, just tall enough to reach Tommy’s shins, ran through the centre of the carpark, and similar barricades encircled the perimeter. A half dozen or so tall metal lamps sat at intervals around the outside of the carpark, releasing thin yellow illumination that leeched all other colour from the area. There were no other vehicles remaining.

His eyes locked instantly on the dark foreboding woodland around them, with its deep shadows; any one of which could, right at this moment, be concealing a werewolf from sight. Most of the trees, as fitting for the time of year, were bereft of leaves, leaving only thin twisted branches that appeared to create disturbing shapes in that weak light. He could make out three distinct pathways leading from the central carpark, each one wide enough to fit the van down, the surface made of dirt and loose wooden chips. It was only the tall buildings, distant but still visible above the skyline, that reminded Tommy he was still in the largest city in England.

Wells emerged from the other side of the van, wrapping her knuckles three times loudly on the sides. A second later the rear doors opened, revealing Zeke and Chase.

“I get to sit up front next time,” said Chase as soon as his shoes hit the gravel, but he had a faint smile as he said that, looking at the big gurajer from the corner of his eyes.

“Hey, you’d complain too if you were always stuck in the back,” Zeke moaned, moving slower as he clambered from the van, his voice a low rumble.

“You should be quicker in calling shotgun then,” Tommy found himself saying, sharing a half grin at the large creature, and was rewarded with a barked laughed from Chase.

“You know the drill, Zeke,” was all Wells said, standing with her back to the trio and staring out towards the darkened trees.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zeke muttered. “Not my fault you humans tend to scream and pull guns when you see me.”

“Hey, I apologised,” exclaimed Tommy, and the three men (or two men and one gurajer) shared a laugh.

Wells interrupted their laughter. “Eyes on the prize, boys,” she said, moving to the van and climbing inside. She reappeared a moment later carrying four assault rifles, tossing one to each of the others and keeping the last for herself. Tommy caught his easily, before bringing it up for inspection; it was an L85A2, a weapon he knew to be common for the British Military, though his own service career had made the Colt Canada C7 more familiar in his grip.

“That’s some serious firepower,” he stated.

“We’ll need it,” said Chase, “if this isn’t another wild goose chase.” The other man’s grip tightened on his weapon, and for a moment the faint hints of a snarl appeared on his lips.

“Call Centre said not,” Wells reminded them, as she began handing out plain black, insignia free, bulletproof vests. As Tommy pulled his over his head – he was not that surprised to note that Zeke’s was large than any two of their put together – he recalled the brief she had given them before they’d left; the Call Centre had intercepted another report of a ‘big dog’, and from the description had confirmed it to be a werewolf. CCTV footage of the area registered it entering about forty minutes before, and no sign of it leaving. His stomach lurched again. A confirmed sighting. This was it, an honest-to-God werewolf. No wonder they needed the hardware, he thought, then wondered if bullets would stop something like that.

What had it been Wells had said? The older a werewolf, the more active it was in bestial form. He glanced up at the sky, the fat moon drifting slowly towards the horizon. He wondered how the old this werewolf would be, how powerful, how much of its human mind it would retain, then wondered how long it took before they held great control over their transformations. A few years? Decades?

Centuries?

Did they live that long? As excited as he was to be here – to have the shroud removed from over the reality of the universe – for every question he had answered, it just raised another ten. Part of him wished that Caine had let him in easily as planned; allow him to acclimatize to the pretty damned big culture shock he was going through. But then he thought, Werewolf! He didn’t know how common they were; he might never get another opportunity to see one.

“Which way?” Chase said, to Wells.

She pointed towards one of the darkened paths with the point of her chin, seemingly choosing it at random. “We’ll start there,” she said. “Form up, I want your eyes open for anything. Chase, bring up the rear.”

They flowed naturally into positions, and once more Tommy was impressed by their professionalism; weapons up, bodies alert, eyes scanning the crossover points. He may not know these people, may not even trust them yet, but he fit into their unit like a missing piece, and that was a great comfort, a great reality, after the instability of the last few hours.

Foxtrot Squadron moved forward, out from the meagre lighting of the carpark, and towards the pathway Wells had indicated. High intensity beams attached to the barrels of their weapons led the way, but that only made the darkness around their pools of light heavier. The ground crunched softly under their feet, but noticeably less so under Zeke’s. For all his size, Zeke – who stalked behind Tommy in their train – moved as quiet as a… well, a cat, Tommy thought, with just a touch of self-reproach.

The darkness held stubbornly away from each of the tall, straight metal lampposts that dotted the pathway every fifty feet or so, though the light from them did not seem to sink far into the trees and brush to either side. Those trees formed a thick and solid roof over the pathway, blocking even the light of the moon. It was almost as if something held the darkness in place, against the lights best efforts. Tommy shuddered, in part from the chill of the air, and he could feel the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up the further along the pathway Wells lead them.

At the paranoid snail’s pace they took, it was a few moments later that they reached the first lamp that was out. Further away was darkened too; all the lamps had gone out. The blackness encroached heavier here, pressing around them ominously. Even the rumble and din of the city around them was muted here, so faint their barely registered. The blood pumped loudly in Tommy’s ears, almost deafening him to anything else. It was all he could do to stop his limbs from shaking. God, I want to run, he thought. I want toturn around and just run. His breath bloomed rapidly before him.

There was something fundamentally wrong here. There was no other way to describe the sensations that hung in the air, chilling the very marrow of his bones.

There was a crack, off to the left, and Tommy swung around to face it, training his weapon at… at what, exactly? Probably just a small animal, he tried to tell himself, hoping it sounded convincing.

“Zeke.” Wells voice cut through the chill. “Up front. Show us the way.”

Zeke moved forward, but not before pressing a large paw on Tommy’s shoulder and giving it an oddly reassuring squeeze. “Keep your mind clear, Rook,” he whispered, as far as someone with a voice like his could whisper. “Bad things hang in the air when there’s a ‘wolf about.”

“And turn those light off people,” Wells continued, ignoring the exchange. “We don’t want to give it any more of a heads up than we need to.”

“S-shouldn’t…” Tommy began, then licked lips that were dry before trying again. “Shouldn’t we keep the lights on? We’ll get lost in this darkness.”

“Zeke can lead us just fine,” Wells replied. He could just about make out her face in the dimness; she wore the look of someone who was growing impatient at explaining things to a child.

“How so?” he whispered. “It’s not like he has night vision goggles or anything.”

Zeke turned now, his eyes glistening as he looked about him. “I’m like a big cat,” he said simply.

Tommy tilted his head to one side as he stared, open mouthed at Zeke. Then realisation stuck. “Oh,” he muttered, a touch sheepishly.

The four bunched up closer at the moved on, using small touches to keep the others within distance. The pathway was wholly black now, and Tommy could only barely make out the massive shape of Zeke as he moved before him. Despite that size, Zeke moved with even more stealth than he had before, his boots making no noise on the pathway. By comparison, Tommy’s footfalls sounded loud in his ears, and his clothes rustled as they brushed passed thin branches and twigs that stuck out into the path. He really is just like a big cat, Tommy thought of the blurry white mass in front of him. I wonder what else he can do.

Then Zeke stopped, so suddenly that Tommy almost walked into his back before he’d realised. Zeke sniffed the air in a distinctly un-cat like manner, and a soft rumble rose from his throat.

Rather than answer, Zeke turned aside, moving off the pathway and into the wooded area that lay to the right. He moved with ease, avoiding branches and boles that Tommy could barely see even inches from his face. Foxtrot squadron trailed slowly, creeping through the trees, following the indistinct shape of Zeke.

Up ahead, through the thick clump of trees, Tommy could make out a faint light, a soft grey glow that grew brighter as they neared, that made the shape of the oaks and birches around them stand out in sharp relief. Zeke stopped, and the other three moved to other side of him, looking out at the grass clearing that began just feet away from their position. The clearing was lit only by the gentle light of the full moon. And in the middle of the clearing was the werewolf.

Rate this:

Tommy slammed the light blue metal locker door shut with a loud echoing clang, and tried to fight his frustration.

He could not help it. After the distance he’d travelled, after the whole new world that had been opened up before his very eyes… to have his first time out come up empty was just a let-down.

He let out a long breath, eyes closed for a moment. Man, am I beat, he thought. A long trip indeed. He opened his eyes again, and took a glance at the steam smeared mirror above the white porcelain sinks. There were definite bags under his eyes. He turned on the cold tap, filling his cupped hands with water, and splashed it over his face. It gave him a blast, shaking off the fatigue momentarily, though he knew it would return. What he needed was a good night’s sleep.

There were no other people in the locker room, not at this time of night. Well, he amended with a swift glance at his wrist watch, this time of the morning. It was a locker room not unlike hundreds, probably even thousands, which Tommy had been in before. It certainly smelled like one; a familiar mix of old sweat, deodorant, and as many different tones of shampoo and shower gel as existed. One wall was filled with a long row of slender metal lockers that reached right up to the ceiling. The keys that Young had given Tommy, what seemed like days ago to him now, fitted locker number 187, which had been empty when he opened it but now contained the rucksack he had carried on the plane. A long wooden bench, roughly shin high, ran along the middle of the room, and made of slats wide enough to fit two people sat back to back, and so deeply varnished as to appear almost black. The other walls and ceiling were white tiled, each one plain and unadorned, with grey grout between them, while the floor tiles were patterned in whites and reds. The sinks and mirror were on the wall opposite the lockers. At the far end of the room, running a T section to the rest of the locker room, were several doorways that led to numerous showers, each one separated from the others by a head high wall on either side, and from the main lock room by a thin blue sheet of shower curtain. There was enough space in the locker room to host two dozen people, by Tommy’s estimation. And this was just the men’s.

Idly, he wondered how many people were employed by M.I.16. Were they all agents, like Wells, Chase and Zeke? Were they all human?

With another sigh, he headed out of the locker room. There was no sign of Wells. Not that he’d expected to see her; the woman had given him the nickel tour, which amounted to his desk at their work section, and the locker rooms, and then disappeared, leaving him to fend for himself. Naturally, that meant he now had no clue where the heck he was. It’s not as if this place was as long as several buildings, he thought bitterly. Of course he’d be lost.

He was pretty sure he’d followed Wells from the left, so going to the right out the door seemed as good as any place to start. The whitewashed corridors, with their thin blue carpeted floors and wide fluorescent lighting along the ceiling, passed by in a blur, only interrupted by other crossing corridors or by doorways set into the walls. Each door he passed was the same; white painted, with a frosted glass sheet taking up almost the entire top half, and each one had a plaque beneath the window with writing in an elegant script, but in no language he understood. He paused before one door at random, reading the inscription. There was a hint of familiarity to the words, on this door and all the others, but one that felt just ever so slightly out of reach. What sort of place was this, he grumbled, that doesn’t even put anything on their doors in English? It didn’t make a bit of sense. And why were there suddenly no people about to ask for directions?

He turned left at one random corridor, then left at another, identical to the first. Then, just for the hell of it, went right at the next junction, into a corridor the mirror of the two before it. He had a brief recollection of his first days at University, when the mammoth campus was an intimidating warren of corridors and many-storied buildings. But at least then there had been some kind of method to the madness; now, he wished vehemently that he had a loaf of bread with him, so he could leave a trail of crumbs. If I had a ball of yarn, he thought, this could be the Labyrinth, and around any corner could be a Minotaur. Not that one of those would be out of place here.

“Okay, now you know you’re dreaming Tommy”, he muttered aloud, pausing where he stood. That had to be the only reasonable explanation for all this. It really did explain everything; the floors that were too big for the building they were in; the giant cat thing called Zeke; the thought of werewolves really existing; casual expectations of man/bull hybrids. And the big one. Why he’d said yes to joining this operation without a second thought? What sort of sane, conscious, person did that?

That must be it. He’d fallen back asleep on the plane after his other nightmare, and now this one was all falling apart, the way dreams do when you examine them too closely. That was why he was now stuck in an infinite loop of wandering around in circles in the same identical corridor. And now that he knew it was a dream, he was sure he was going to wake up. Any second now. Now. Now.

Now?

“Are you okay?” The voice made Tommy jump.

He twirled, backing up against the plain white wall instinctively. It was only when he saw the corridor’s other occupant that he relaxed, only slightly. Before him was a young woman – late teens or early twenties by his best guess – with blonde hair that fell loosely all the way to the small of her back. She was wrapped in long robes of a white so pure they made the white of the walls around her look smudged and dirty, robes with deep and voluminous sleeves.

“Oh, hey,” he said to her, a touch uncertainly. “Scared me half to death. I didn’t know anyone was there.”

“There w-wasn’t,” she stammered. The girl was clearly nervous, looking down at the floor. But nervous of what? That, he thought, is a big ass question. In a place like this, she could be nervous of anything. “I was in the Call Centre,” she continued. “That, that’s not a g-good place to stand.”

Stand? He looked about him. He was in the middle of a random corridor, next to one of the many random doors that lined it. Tentatively, he took a half step forwards, looking at the girl for confirmation. She nodded once.

“The Call Centre?” he said, as the words brushed his consciousness. Wells had mentioned that too, but as with most things, had not been forthcoming with the fun facts to know and tell.

“You don’t…?” she began, narrowing her eyes at him in confusion. They were, without a doubt, the brightest green he had ever seen. Then the light of understanding dawned on her soft features, and Tommy realised her eyes had been dull and insignificant before. She lowered them, staring once more at the floor. “You m-must be – you’re Brogan, right? The new recruit?”

“Only if I can convince you to call me Tommy,” he replied, flashing her his most winning smile.

She returned it, her face lighting up. “Tommy,” she said as if savouring the word, flicking her eyes up to him again, then almost instantly staring at her feet again. “Leila. Is, is me. That is, I’m Leila.”

“Nice to meet you Leila,” he said. “So, the Call Centre?”

She looked up again, only for an instant, her lips making a small ‘O’. “R-right,” she said, lowered her gaze again. “The Call Centre is a magical domain, a folding in the space/time that stretches through both until infinity. It’s a central nexus of power and energy; a convergence point, if you like, of all reality. Because of these properties, we use our magic to enter that space, and use it to monitor all human forms of communication in real time, as well as several of the more advanced other races, for information that could lead to a masquerade violation, or for incidents involving matters and creatures of supernatural origin. It is also the first point of call for field teams, providing support for any and all situations they may find themselves in.”

Tommy wasn’t sure how well he succeeded in keeping the blank expression from his face. He was fairly certain most of those words had been in English; they just didn’t necessarily fit together in a way he could fully understand. One thing was certain though; the blonde woman had not stuttered once during her entire speech.

“That’s great,” was all he could think to say. Then an idea hit him. “Hey, you couldn’t help a guy out, could you? I seem to have got a little lost. You know the way out?”

“Oh, s-sure,” said Leila with a start, then looked up and down both sides of the nondescript corridor. “It’s uhm…”

But she had no chance to finish, as Wells suddenly appeared around a corner. She stopped when she saw the pair, throwing up an exasperated gesture. “There you are,” she snapped. “I’ve looked everywhere for you.”

“Well, I was here,” he retorted. “Waiting for someone to show me the way out. Guess this part of the tour was to be scheduled?”

If she sensed the hostility in his words, Wells ignored it, stomping ever closer. “It’ll have to wait, Brogan.” Then she had reached the two, and continued on past them, towards the other end of the corridor. “We have a confirmed sighting.”

He watched her rapidly dwindling back, before the full weight of her words hit him like a punch to the gut, almost hard enough to double him over.

Confirmed sighting.

This was it. His stomach roiled, protesting, and his limbs felt weak. He licked suddenly dry lips, before turning to say his goodbyes to Leila, only to find the corridor deserted again.

Realising that her sudden disappearance was just one thing too many for him to worry about, he scurried after Wells, hoping not to lose her and get lost once more.

Before he could even pull the trigger, Tommy’s arm was tugged roughly aside, pointing it low and to the left, away from the creature.

“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Chase roughly, at the same time Wells yelled, “Are you out of your damn mind?”

Chase still held Tommy’s wrist in a tight grip, so he pointed with his left hand, limb quivering just as much as his voice as he spoke. “W-w-w-werewolf.”

“Where?”

But that voice had not come from Wells, or Chase. Instead, like a deep rumble, it had issued from the monster, even as it span away from them, head whipping back and forth as it searched behind it. Its ears shivered violently, and Tommy realised it was pulling a hand gun from the holster on a pair of oversized pants. The thing wears pants? his brain managed dully. Some part of him also recognised that the creature also wore shoes, and a heavy jacket, but the part of him that would listen to that other part had taken a vacation.

Tommy watched, uncomprehending, as the beast turned back to them, its eyebrows furrowed in what looked for all the world like annoyance. It moved towards them, and it was only Chase’s vice grip on his wrist that prevented Tommy from raising his weapon again.

“Almost gave me a heart attack,” the creature muttered as it neared, in that voice like a distant avalanche.

“It… it talks,” Tommy found himself saying. From here, the creature’s large face was more feline that he’d expected. That made no sense to him; you heard werewolf, you imagined canine. The fur, which from a distance had appeared pure white, was instead swirled with streaks of light grey, almost like the stripes of a tiger, though it had a distinctly lion-like mane.

“You should hear me sing in the shower, mate,” the creature said. “I do an impressive soprano.” Then its cat-like eyes moved to Wells. “This is the rookie then?”

“That’s what Weston thinks,” she replied, voice back to hard ice as she glared at Tommy. Chase finally released his grip on Tommy’s arm.

“Some shoot-first, ask-questions-later Yank?”

“I’m not a Yank.” It was only when three pairs of eyes levelled on him that he realised his protest had been loud and sharp.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I insult you?” asked the creature. “Would you prefer if I screamed and pointed a gun at you?”

Tommy felt his cheeks burn. “Sorry,” he murmured. This whole situation just didn’t make any sense to him. This is what happens, he thought, when you jump off a cliff before you see what’s at the bottom. They’d offered him this position, and he’d snapped it up without really knowing thing one about what it actually meant. They’d been sent out to hunt a werewolf, a creature from legend, but instead they seemed to be familiar with it, conversing like colleagues. He addressed Wells. “I thought that’s what you did? Stop the supernatural menace.”

“It is,” she said with a sigh that let most of her annoyance slip from her frame. “But to paint every supernatural creature with the same brush does the vast majority of them a disservice. They’re a lot like humans; a few bad apples spoil it for the rest. And it’s those bad apples that we deal with.”

“Right,” the creature said. “Most of us leave relatively normal lives. I myself grew up on a diet of 80s cartoons and junk food. The most I could menace is a KFC. Didn’t you read the introductory booklet?”

“We didn’t have time,” Wells answered before Tommy could speak.

“So you’re…” Tommy licked his lips. “So you’re not a werewolf?”

The beast laughed, a sound like a much closer avalanche. “Nah, mate,” it said. “I’m a gurajer. Name’s Zeke.” It offered a hand, and Tommy took it, his own hand swallowed up by the creature’s – Zeke’s – mammoth one.

“Tommy,” he replied.

“Well, if that’s introductions out of the way,” said Wells, “let’s get started. Chase, why don’t you go speak to our boys in blue, make sure Brogan’s screaming didn’t cause any of them to become too curious about what we’re doing here? Can’t have anyone else showing up and trying to shoot Zeke.”

Tommy felt a rebuke swell in him, but Zeke beat him too him. “Ah, leave off Monika. Rook said he was sorry. Can’t expect him to know everything. Besides, I’m noticeably bullet hole free, so it’s all good.” His feline features curled into what Tommy could only assume was a grin.

Chase let out a soft laugh, and clapped the big creature on the back. “You always were the best of us,” he said, with more than a trace of playful mocking, before moving away towards the distant flashing lights of police cars.

Tommy eyed the darkened building. Five stories in height, it was made of heavy grey concrete, the sides open to the elements. The insides were all dark shadows, black and oppressive. He followed the others towards it. The big gurajer had long strides, moving out ahead of Tommy and Wells, though the woman did not appear in too much of a hurry. That was the opposite of Tommy’s feelings; his skin hummed with anticipation, and his eyes were already searching eagerly.

A werewolf, he thought. A real life werewolf.

He wondered what exactly it would look like. Oh, sure, he’d seen movies since he was a kid, old black and whites all the way up to CGI blockbusters, and every werewolf in those were as different as the next. In his mind, he saw something not unlike Zeke; big and hairy, probably grey fur, and with claw and teeth that could rip flesh apart like the proverbial hot knife through butter. Red glowing eyes swam in his imaginings, and he stumbled up the steps of the circling stairwell they were climbing.

Zeke gave a small laugh. “Thought you army types were supposed to be coordinated?” he said.

The stairwell was close and oppressive, the tight confines making the shadows deeper and longer. Each wall was whitewashed, though with enough brightly colour graffiti to make that all but impossible to make out. They reached the top of the stairwell, pausing by the thick red firedoor. Like seasoned pros, Wells and Zeke had their weapons up, stacking up on either side of that door. Instincts kicked in, and Tommy drew his SIG as well, slipping easily back into his combat-ready mind set, senses on overdrive.

Wells made eye contact with them both, then counted down with her fingers; three, two, one. Then she grabbed the door handle, twisted, and pushed the door open.

Zeke was first in, weapon scanning around, while Tommy was hot on his heels. He sensed Wells behind him, also searching deep into the dark shadows.

“Clear,” said Zeke, his massive frame relaxing, and a second later Wells and then Tommy repeated the word. Aside from a few cars, no doubt belonging to people out late in the city’s many bars and restaurants, there was nothing in the dimly lit parking level.

He followed the others to the middle of the level, tucking his SIG into the back waistband of his jeans. “So what exactly are we looking for?” he asked, still scanning the area around him, senses still heightened, though a more relaxed ready than seconds before.

Zeke pulled out a PDA from the pocket of his pants; his giant furry palm dwarfed the device. He tapped it briefly with his stylus, then showed Wells and Tommy an image of a dark haired woman. “Call came in from Amanda Sark, 32, works in the City but not local. She called 999, with reports that a big dog was stalking her.”

“Big dog?” Tommy queried, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Most people wouldn’t recognise a werewolf if they saw one,” came a voice from behind, and Tommy turned to see Chase approaching them. The agent took a sip from his coffee. In his other hand was a large black case, obviously heavy enough to make him need to adjust the lean it forced upon his stance. “Or, well… they would. But they tend to not believe their own eyes. And who can blame them?”

“So ‘big dog’ is a buzzword the Call Centre looks for,” added Wells.

Tommy felt his brain descend briefly into that same fog he’d entered several times today already. Call Centre? No, no, that’ll be in the book, I’m sure, no need to ask what that is.

Wells continued. “Of course, nine times out of ten, it turns out to be an actual big dog that’s got loose somehow.”

“And let’s hope this is one of them,” Zeke muttered. Even his muttering was like a dozen bumblebees.

“I hope it’s not,” Tommy surprised himself by saying out loud. He stammered a little as they all regarded him quizzically. “I…I… I mean, it’s a, you know, it’s a classic. I think I’d love to see one.”

“No,” said Chase, that single word holding a chill. “Trust me, you wouldn’t. Werewolves are evil. They’re malicious, and intelligent, and they kill for fun. They don’t hunt for food, they hunt for sport. You don’t want to meet one, but if you do, you put it down without question.”

“But,” said Tommy, shaking his head. “But I thought you said that most of these things are good, or at least as good as humans are in general. What if this one is like Zeke?”

“No,” Chase snapped again, his tone harder. The man’s eyes were narrowed, and he glared at Tommy.

Wells moved to Chase’s side, resting a hand lightly on the other agent’s arm, though she looked only at Tommy. “A werewolf isn’t like a gurajer, or any other species. A werewolf is a human, cursed with pure evil. They’re forced by the curse to transform into beasts with every full moon, true. But that’s pretty much all fairy tales will tell you. The reality is that as each werewolf grows older, the more the curse takes over, and the more control they have over when they transform. A sufficiently old one can, and will, be in wolf form almost constantly. But as the wolf form becomes more pronounced, so too does the human aspect of the mind.”

“And that’s bad?” Tommy asked.

“Yeah, that’s bad,” Wells agreed. “Because the mind that’s there is twisted by the curse, warped by it. It magnifies the worst traits of humanity; cunning, treachery, malice, the lot. There are no good werewolves, just like there are no good vampires. Most species… they have a choice. They can choose to do good, or choose to do evil. But those two are corruptions, devoid of any basic moral compass, and need to be stopped at all costs.”

Tommy was silent a moment, running the woman’s words through his mind. It seemed that everything he learnt about this new world that had been opened up to him, he found there were a dozen other things that he did not know. No wonder the damn book is so big, he thought. “Alright,” he said. “I guess I’ll take the back seat on this one. Leave it to the professionals, and try not to ask too many stupid questions.”

Chase gave a tight nod, and turned away without another word. Zeke, however, gave him a comradery clap on the back that almost sent Tommy spilling. “Don’t worry, Rook. You’re a rookie for a reason.”

Wells was silent, eyeing Tommy with that weighing look of hers. As usual, it appeared whatever she saw when she looked at him, she was not happy with the result. Tommy would have bet money she was thinking about how she had been straddled with an inexperienced person on her team. Idly, he wondered what had happened to his predecessor.

“Anything on CCTV,” she said suddenly, turning so it was clear her words were for Chase and Zeke.

“Naturally,” Zeke answered, tapping on his PDA again. “Building CCTV works perfectly. Oh, except for the three cameras on this level, which all conveniently went out about twenty minutes before Amanda made her call.”

Wells scoffed. “What’s the point in living in the most camera-heavy city on the world if inconsiderate creatures are just going to disable them?”

A call from the side attracted her attention just then. “Got something, Mon’.” She moved to Chase’s side. The other man was squatted down on his haunches, looking at something on the ground. Tommy peered at the item until he understood what it was; a shattered smart phone.

“Bag it and tag it,” Wells said, even though Chase was already pulling a camera from the case. It was a good model of camera, professional, though Tommy really wasn’t the best judge of these things. Chase began taking pictures of the phone’s location.

“So what now?” Tommy asked, feeling very much like a fifth wheel now that it was clear that nothing was going to leap out the shadows and attack them.

“Now we catalogue the scene,” Wells said. Behind her, Tommy could see that Zeke too had a camera out, one that looked laughably small in his big hands, and was diligently taking pictures of the area around them.

“And the woman?” asked Tommy. “What if she’s still around somewhere?”

“Unlikely,” Wells replied after a moment. There was a trace of resigned acceptance in her voice, almost as if some strength had slipped from her. Then she sniffed loudly, and her posture straightened again. “There’s no body here, and no blood either. She might have run, or…”

“Or she might have been taken,” Tommy finished. That did not sound like something positive; he was certain that meant one of two things, and being turned into a werewolf was the lesser of those. “So what’s our next step?”

“We catalogue the scene,” Wells repeated. “We look for clues, though there probably won’t be anything useful. And after that, we head back to the base and wait.”

“Wait?” Tommy cocked his head to one side. “Wait for what?”

It was Chase who replied, almost offhand from where he was still documenting the area around the damaged phone. “For the next sighting.”

Tommy stood at Wells’ side, his mind reeling and rejecting what he saw before him.

They were on a solid platform surrounded by a study wrought iron railing, approximately fifteen feet above an open plan office space. The work area was divided into smaller pentagonal areas, each with four inward facing desks along its sides and a large monitor bank along the fifth. At least a dozen men and women were in the office space, moving between the desks or sat at them, the soft hum of their conversations mingling together to blur their words to unintelligible by the time they reached Tommy’s ears.

Above that office space, set back and just higher than Tommy and Wells stood now, was a white walled box of a room, one window set into it. The window was a half circle, the curve pointing towards the ceiling that Tommy was trying hard to ignore, though whatever was inside that room, overlooking the workers below, was hidden behind frosted glass.

To the left and right of the large office spaces were two more rooms, each one rising as high as the base of the platform they stood one. Each one was plain white, devoid of window or decoration, and each room ran deeper into the larger room they stood in until they passed the field of his vision.

His mind roiled at that.

Finally, his eyes crossed to the section of this room that he had tried hardest of all not to look too closely at. Behind the overlooking room with the half-moon window stood what could only be described as a tower block, scores of plain square windows dotting its face. It went up, and up, and up, and up, high towards the domed roof that stretched so high above Tommy’s head.

And behind even that tower block was a long blank wall that ran from one side of the room to the other, hinting at even more depth that lay beyond that.

It shouldn’t fit, the rational part of his mind complained. He knew that when he and Wells had entered the elevator shaft, it had lain roughly in the centre of Huntington Tower. But the level he now stood in appeared as large as a warehouse, blown up to gigantic proportions. It went up, it went out, and it went back, far higher and wider and deeper than his mind told him the entire building should be. This floor, it should stick out of the tower that housed it like a sore thumb.

And yet…

He licked dry lips, before tentatively testing his words. “How is this possible?”

“Don’t you have Doctor Who in America?”

“I’m Canadian,” he corrected, “and that’s a TV show. This is real life.”

Wells did not respond, instead descending a metal staircase that led down from their platform to the office space below, and he scrambled to keep up with her. He knew his eyes were wide from surprise, just as he knew there would be no way he could alter that. The place he was in now, it was just too fantastical to make sense.

Wells nodded familiarly to a passing couple, two women dressed in black military fatigues and carrying enough firepower to storm a small fortress. He stared at that too, as they began to make the ascent up the stairs he had just descended. They’d reached the top before Tommy realised that Wells had continued on her way, and he rushed after her again as she weaved through the pentagonal work spaces.

“M.I.16,” she said, still walking, as Tommy caught up with her, “was formed by the War Office in the height of World War II, to handle scientific intelligence. Wikipedia lists us as defunct, but you hopefully know by now how reliable that can be.”

They passed a desk and Tommy stop short as something new caught his eye. A small cage, a cloth draped over it, floated – FLOATED – off the desk. Only a few bare centimetres, to be true, but definitely not suspended by anything that Tommy could see. The office worker, dressed in jeans, a button up blazer and a thin red tie, gave Tommy a small smile when he saw him looking.

Something moved in the cage.

Tommy became faintly aware that Wells was still talking, but he leaned in closer to the cage. “When it became clear that Hitler’s scientific interests were, perhaps in a fit of desperation, taking a more supernatural edge, we followed suit.”

Yes, there was something in the cage. A cat, maybe? It would be about the right size. But then a hand gripped the bars, slipping through a gap in the cloth, a mottled grey hand with thin fingers, and he knew it was no cat. A head followed into the gap, bulbous, with a barely existent nose, large black eyes, and dropping ears that hung like flaps on either side of that head. It eyed Tommy with a soulful look of mourning, reminding Tommy of the puppy his family had adopted after it had been abandoned by its owner. He inched his hand forwards, fingers reaching towards the creature.

“Don’t touch that, Mr Brogan.”

Tommy gave a start, jerking his hand back, and turned to see Wells had returned to his side.

“It can shred the flesh off your finger in less than a second,” she added, before turning a withering glare at the man by the desk. The other man shrugged, before grabbing the cage and heading deeper into the mind melting office space.

“Uh, it’s Tommy,” Tommy said almost automatically, but Wells had already continued with her walk and talk lecture.

“It was during this time that we first became truly aware of not only the existence of magic-wielding people, thought to belong only in the pages of fiction and the tellings of religions, but also of creatures long believed to be little more than myths; werewolves, vampires, zombies, and the like.”

Tommy’s thoughts, already beaten and bruised into submission by the mind boggling place around them, skipped. Did she just…? No. No, he was hearing things, for sure. He rushed ahead, rounding in front of her, blocking her path with an upraised hand.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he cried, his voice holding an edge of hysteria. “Magic and vampires? This is a joke, right? Who put you up to this, was it Donnie? He always was a practical joker, but he’s never gone this far before.”

Wells’ eyes locked on his, showing no hint of emotion beyond the cool dislike she had held since the very moment she had met him. Then she slowly turned on the spot, looking all about her, arching her eyebrow as she did. “Does this look like a joke to you, Mr Brogan,” she said as she finally faced him again. “Do I look like I’m trying to wind you up? Did you think that the fact that this Bullpen is too big for the building that houses it is all some sort of special effect, and the Imp in the cage was a mere elaborate puppet?”

It couldn’t be true. He refused to believe it, despite the evidence of his own eyes. It was too… too fantastical. Monsters, witches, beasts of legend. But Wells did have a point; it was too much to be a joke, to be a con.

His face felt. “So what you’re saying is…”

“What I’m saying,” she said, over the top of him, “is that practically everything you thought you knew about the working of the world you live in is little more than a mask over the truth. And it has been M.I.16’s task, for the last fifty years or so, to ensure that mask does not slip for a population who, quite frankly, couldn’t handle the truth even if they wanted to know it.” It was the most words Tommy had heard from the woman all night.

“And that is where you come in,” said a fresh voice. A tall man was striding across the Bullpen towards them, a pair of what appeared to be aides scurrying to keep up. The man was strongly built, with short cut pebbledash hair, and a straight stance. His face, lined with age, still held a poise and a set that Tommy recognised as a military man. His suit, well-tailored and clearly expensive, was charcoal grey, over a stark white shirt that made his blue and yellow striped tie stand out. The man held out a hand for Tommy to shake; his grip was firm. “Weston Caine,” the man said. “Director, M.I.16.”

Caine smiled, glancing about him. “We’re proud of it, Mr Brogan.” He took a tablet from one of his aides, glanced at the screen, before hastily scribbling his signature with a stylus. The aide took the tablet back, then scampered away into the heart of Level 51.

“Please,” said Tommy. “Call me Tommy.”

“Mr Brogan will be fine,” Caine replied, his smile tight. “I like to keep a certain degree of professionalism with my employees.”

“Your choice, but…” Tommy trailed off as the words sank in. “I’m not one of your—”

“M.I.16 has always had close ties with the various agencies around the world who deal with the same things we deal with,” Caine said, rolling over the top of Tommy. “Our Canadian counterparts have had their eye on you for quite some time it seems.”

“We don’t have thing like that in Canada,” Tommy protested.

Wells snorted in derision. “Of course you don’t.” Her tone left little doubt what she thought of his statement. Caine cast her a quick look, and Wells returned to silence.

“We’ve recently had a… well, I guess you could call it an opening in our ranks,” Cain continued. “Due to our unique relationship with your Canadian Supernatural Agency, it was agreed for you to come here. On a trial basis only, I must add; see how you fit with us. Naturally, we offered them suitable remuneration. As I said, they had high hopes for you themselves.”

“Naturally,” breathed Tommy. His mind still swirled, more and more with each revelation. There was a Canadian agency specifically to hunt monsters? And they’d had their eye on me? Nothing made sense.

Except, it did. There had been the… the event, that lad led to the deaths of his entire unit, while he himself had been injured enough to be put on Injured Reserve until the transfer notice had come through. And for years even before that, there had been government types visit his base, always sequestered with his CO, and each time they had visited, they had insisted on speaking directly to Tommy afterwards. Only, the questions they had asked did not make any kind of sense, at least not any he could fathom. Things like, “If you were trapped in a desert, what item would you take with you? A red pencil, a green calculator, or a blue ruler?” What did that even mean? Had they been from this, this CSA? He had the feeling that he was little more than prize beef, being paraded before butchers.

“I’m afraid the rest of the tour will have to wait,” Caine said, passing another signed tablet to another aide. “Foxtrot is out in the field, and they’re going to need your support. Take Mr Brogan with you.”

“You put my team in the field without me?” Wells exclaimed. The glare she gave her boss would have wilted a lesser man, but Weston Caine took it in his stride.

“Yours is not the place to question my decisions, Agents Wells,” he replied, and before his cool and focused demeanour, it was Wells who looked cowed. “Everyone else has assignments; Alpha are hunting a worm in the Leicester sewers, Charlie are investigating reports of a vampire in Chelsea. Foxtrot are the only team with no active assignment, but don’t worry; Agent Chase and Agent Rawl have instructions to secure the area and await your arrival.” He glanced briefly at Tommy. “Yours, and Mr Brogan’s.”

“You can’t do this,” Wells protested again. “Foxtrot is my team; I decide who is a part of it.”

“And you’ve not done that for the past two months,” Caine responded smoothly. “I gave you some leeway because I know how personal this was to you, but two months is two months too long for Foxtrot to be short a member, so I made the choice for you. Now, get Mr Brogan some gear from the armoury, and then meet Agents Chase and Rawl. You have a possible werewolf sighting to investigate.”

With that, Caine turned smoothly on his heels and marched off back into the far reaches of the building, cutting off any more argument from Wells. Not that Tommy actually noticed any of this. His mind was still like jelly. Leaden jelly, that’s what it felt like. But one thing was floating through the mire of his thoughts. One word.

“Did he…” he began, then licked lips that were suddenly dry and parched. “Did he say werewolf?”

But Wells was no longer at his side either. He scanned the crowd for her, then spotted her departing back heading towards the room that stood to the far left of the Bullpen. He moved after her, as if through mist, as if through a dream, meeting her just as she reached a doorway. The red door had a single glass sheet taking up the top half, frosted like every other piece he’d seen so far, with the words Armoury written on a small brass plaque beneath.

“Keep up, Brogan,” Wells said as she pushed the door open. “I don’t have all day.”

“Tommy,” he muttered, half under his breath. Don’t even ask me if I want to be part of their super-secret fight against the supernatural, he thought bitterly. Just take it as read that I’m going to do it. And damn me, but I’m going to.

The inside opened up to a room as big as the Bullpen, with a flat roof that stood fifteen feet above Tommy’s head. Inside were row upon row of shelves, running deep towards the far end of the room, each filled with enough armaments to put a military base to shame; assault rifles, sniper rifles, handguns, body armour, helmets, camo fatigues, and everything that lay in between.

In front of those stacks stood a long solid counter, of a deeply varnished timber, plain and undecorated. A woman stood behind that counter. She was a large woman, the bulk of her being muscle rather than fat, straining the fabric of her sharply creased black fatigues. She had grey hair, buzzed close to her dark skin, and piercing brown eyes that flicked from Wells to him, then looked him up and down as if appraising.

“So this is the new kid, huh?” she said, her thick arms crossing beneath her breasts.

“We’ll see,” replied Wells tartly. The look she gave Tommy had moved on from the casual distain she had held since first meeting him, into personal dislike.

“Yeah, Weston said you’d be stopping by,” the woman said, addressing Tommy now. “I’m Quartermaster Young, and it’s my job to make sure you get the kit you need. It’s also my job to make sure you give it back in the same condition. And believe me when I say, if you do not, I will make your life a living hell for so long that even after I die, I’m gonna haunt you.”

Tommy blinked slowly. He was almost sure she was joking about that last, but given everything that had happened in the last few minutes, he wouldn’t have put money on it.

“Right then…” She turned away from the pair, grabbing a large grey tub, reminiscent of those used at airport security, from one of the small cupboards behind her, and placing it in front of Tommy. It has a long grey piece of masking tape along one of the narrow sides, with BROGAN written in thick permanent marker. Inside it was a small leather wallet, a set of brass keys, a pair of solid steel handcuffs, a sleek black smart phone, a rather thick and intimidating book, and a holstered SIG Saur with two spare magazines. She placed a hard wooden clipboard, worn with use and heavily doodled, atop the tray. The clipboard was stuffed with several sheets of official looking paper, and a thin blue pen hung from a length of frayed cord tied around the clip. “Let’s get started,” Young continued, as she passed him the clipboard.

He took the clipboard. The top sheet had a logo on it, a large circle with the letters M.I.16 in the centre. Around the circumference of the circle was more script; it read A Lucerna Adversum Tenebris. Tommy recognises Latin when he saw it, but not enough to know what it said. His name was also on that top sheet, below that logo, with a clear space for a signature.

“We have your ID,” Young was saying, holding the wallet in her hands. She opened it, the clip popping as she did so, and handed him an ID card from inside. His own face looked back at him, the picture younger than now, his hair cut almost as short as the quartermaster’s. From a few years ago, he thought. The ID card also listed his name, but the logo beside it was not the same M.I.16 one.

“What’s D.S.I?” he said, reading the letters, then giving Wells and Young quizzical looks. One that was returned by Young, but aimed solely at Wells.

“We didn’t have time for the full briefing,” Wells said to the quartermaster. Then, to Tommy, she added, “Department of Special Investigations. It’s the name we use when dealing with other branches of the military and police forces. Like I said, M.I.16 was supposed to have been disbanded decades ago, but sometimes we need to assert our authority. D.S.I is how we do it.”

“Like a cover?” Tommy asked, and she nodded.

“The wallet also has a badge that matches the ID card,” Young said. “Most of this is in the book,” she tapped the large tome with a solid finger. “Guess you’re gonna have to sink or swim until you manage to read all of that.”

Tommy eyed the book. It looked a daunting task. He could just imagine that the text inside the book was minute, and probably written in a language that only a lawyer could follow.

Another ID card was pressed into his hands. This one also had his picture, but the name read Adam Mellow.

“Smart boy,” she said. Then she gave him another card. This one was a blank white, save for a magnetic strip on one side. “That’s your card for the elevator. You lose that, you tell someone ASAP, no excuses. We take the security here very seriously, for reasons that will become readily apparent.”

He took the wallet from her, slipping the cards back into the thin slits, then shoved the wallet into his back pocket.

“The rest is pretty self-explanatory,” Young said, gesturing at each one. “Cuffs; Phone – we’re the only people that have this number. I don’t care how cute the girl or guy you meet might be, you don’t give anyone else this number; keys to your locker and desk – Agent Wells can show you where those are when she gets a moment; and, of course, your service weapon.”

Tommy picked the SIG up out of the tub, aware that both women were watching his hands. He slipped it from its holster, popped the magazine out and checked the rounds inside, and carried out the other tests on a new weapon he’d done a thousand times before.

“Now I just need your signature,” Young said, gesturing to the clipboard.

Tommy took his time, reading through the paperwork. This definitely had been prepared with a legal eye in mind, but everything seemed to be okay; it was just about him taking responsibility for the items in the tub. He scrawled his name where indicated, then again on the duplicate that was for his own records. Young gave him a warm smile as she took the clipboard back.

“We’re all done then,” she said, the clipboard vanishing back behind the counter. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” said Tommy. “Some sort of bag?”

Young grinned again, and placed a plain black messenger bag before him.

Tommy followed Wells back into the Bullpen, stuffing the items from the grey tub into the messenger bag. She led him up the staircase, to the small platform they had initially entered. Then she gestured to the card reader.

“You may as well make sure it works,” she said, a touch too reluctantly for his tastes. Burn you woman, he thought, you don’t have to treat me like crap. But he held his tongue, instead swiping the card. The elevator doors pinged open.

They rode down again in silence. When the elevator finally reached its destination, Tommy was surprised to discover the doors opening not to the lobby of the building, but to a low ceilinged underground carpark.

He was even more surprised to see Wells’ red Audi parked in a space not far from them. It didn’t appear to affect Wells, though, and she strode to it with a purpose. Tommy barely had time to close to passenger door and clip his belt into place before she was revving the engine into deep, rumbling, roars. He could have sworn the tyres squealed as she gunned the car out of the parking space, and towards the ramp that led to the surface.

The journey, much like the one into London, was carried out in silence, but this one had the soft voice of the car’s GPS directing Wells’ movements. Tommy attempted to read through the thick book Young had given him, but he had been right in his assumption; the text was far too cramped to make out in the dark of the car. After only a minute’s attempt, he slipped the book back into his bag, and concentrated in staring out the window again.

It took them only twenty minutes or so to reach their destination, a multi-story parking structure, all grey concrete and dark open sides. Police tape, and a couple of cars with lights flashing atop them, kept civilians from getting too close to the structure. Wells flashed her fake DSI badge at one of the police officers, who lifted the tape high enough for her to slip the Audi underneath.

There was only one other vehicle parked outside the structure, a plain white van, panels on the sides and rear doors that prevented anyone seeing inside. Wells stopped the Audi behind the van, killing the engine. They both exited, into the chilly winter night air.

Tommy slung the strap of the bag over one shoulder so it hung across his chest, glancing around them, peering into every darkened recess and shadowy corner. If Caine’s words had been right, there was a werewolf here. Possibly. A werewolf, Tommy thought, his mind spinning again. A real life werewolf. If you’re going to live a life fighting the supernatural, what better way to start than with one of the classics?

There was another man here, just stepping out from the driver’s side of the van. He was shorter than Tommy, but not by much, with black hair shaved close to his skull, and skin a few shades darker than Quartermaster Young’s. He wore a thick coat of a deep navy blue, long enough to cover his knees and buttoned up high under his chin, and below that a pair of dark pants and black shoes. He clutched a Styrofoam cup in one hand, soft trails of steam rising from the lid. He smiled broadly at Wells.

“About time you got here,” he said, then looked at Tommy. “So this is him then?”

Tommy extended his hand. “Call me Tommy,” he said, as he and Chase shook hands. Close up, he could see that the other man’s hair was peppered with fine grey specks at the temples, though he did not appear to be any more than five years Tommy’s senior.

“Yeah, okay,” was all Chase said, then turned his attention back to Wells. “So we’re just waiting on you, Mon’, cause apparently me and Zeke can’t do anything without you here to hold our hands.”

“Where is Zeke?” Wells asked, her eyes narrowing towards the van.

Chase jerked a thumb a little way down the street. “Just making sure the perimeter is secure,” he said. “You know how he doesn’t like being cooped up in the back of the van.”

“It’s like he doesn’t complain about anything else,” Wells replied, but her voice had a hint of fondness, a hint of friendliness that Tommy had not heard in it before.

From the corner of his eyes, Tommy saw movement. There was a large hedge a little ways down the street, running parallel to the parking structure, so wrapped in shadow now that it appeared almost black. And something was coming out of it. Something large. No, something huge. Bipedal, with stark white fur, a small pink triangle for a nose, eyes that seemed to glow, tufted ears that sat atop its head, and claws that looked like they could rip a man in half.

“Look out!” Tommy cried, already raising his SIG from the bag, finger going for the trigger.

The loose dirt of the forest floor passed rapidly beneath him as he twisted around boulders and the boles of giant trees with not even as much as the slightest pause. Those boulders and trees should have been all but invisible here, under the heavy canopy of the branches that blocked out what little light came from the night sky high above, but he saw them all clearly. There was no colour, not to him, but not everything was in black and white; grey seeped into the world around him, grey of all shades, giving depth, giving life.

As he leapt over a fallen log, he realised there was something different about his body, but for the life of him he could not figure it out, even as front paws landed first, the leap not even slowing his frantic pace.

He felt something tangy and metallic in his mouth, something wet. He ran a tongue over it, feeling the sharp points of teeth in his mouth, but not even that seemed odd to him.

He could sense them, up ahead. His prey. His quarry.

They knew he was here now, had known it since he took down the first of them. They had fled him, stumbling almost blind in the darkness that was his home. They had tripped over unseen branches, tumbled down short banks, slipped on slick moss. But eventually they had regrouped, and he was fast approaching their new position.

He could hear their voices, raised, shouting to each other. But the words… he felt like he should know them, if he could only concentrate. If he could just reach out with his mind, he knew that their words would make sense to him. Not in a way of recognition, but in a way of… remembrance?

His mind felt like thick fog, unable to focus on what he wanted to focus on. There was only the Hunt that filled his entire being, and each time he tried to remember where he was, what he was doing, the thoughts slipped away like water through his fingers.

Fingers. That thought stayed long enough to have a follow up. I should have fingers… Then that too was gone.

They’d found a clearing, open to the soft pale light of the moon that hung, fat and swollen, in a crisply dark sky speckled with a million million stars. They had flashlights out, pointing them this way and that, making more of their almost familiar words to each other. They peered intently into the darkness of the forest that encircled the clearing, but they did not see him as he slinked carefully around.

He wanted them. That thought above all others. Wanted to leap at them, his teeth bared. Wanted to sink those teeth into flesh, ripping and tearing it asunder. Wanted to taste their blood, hot and sweet and sticky. The Hunt filled him, made his body ache with the need.

One of them must have spotted him, because suddenly they shouted louder than the others – and those words he knew he should have known as if it had come from his own mouth – and they all turned their lights towards his location. Their lights, and something more. Another word he should know, for those long devices they held in their hands, one end of each pointed towards him.

But it was too late. Too late for them, as he leapt into the clearing, his fevered desire for their death spurring him on. Onwards he rushed, twisting and leaping and dodging but never slowing, passed the streaking metal that would have spelled his doom, metal that was spat at him from those long devices with rapid and monstrously loud booms, and flashes of sudden light almost as bright as the sun.

Each bullet – the word intruded on him, feeling both familiar and unknown at the same time – missed its mark as he darted and dodged aside. Then he was on the first, leaping for the man, his paws outstretched and claws ready, his lips bared to reveal those razor sharp teeth.

The soldier screamed.

**

With a scream, he thrust himself out of the dream, catapulting almost out of his seat. And he probably would have left it entirely too, had it not been for the belt that was locked around his waist, securing him to the seat.

His eyes were open as wide as they could go, flashing this way and that wildly, and he panted as if he had just ran a sprint in record time. In his chest, his heart hammered incessantly, and sweat slicked his forehead and back.

Still shaking, he lowered himself back down into the seat, trying hard to control his breathing. It came now in short, sharp, burst through his nostrils. He became aware that his hands gripped the arms to the seat hard enough to turn the knuckles white, hard enough to dig his nails into the material.

Fingers. That was an odd thing to be surprised by, he thought as he unclenched his death grip on the seat arms. Fingers. He raised his hands to his face, wiggling the fingers even as he stared at them, counting them. Ten fingers. Why am I surprised that I have fingers?

He became aware of more of the world beyond his fingers. To his left, in the cramped seat next to him, was an elderly woman. She had thinning grey hair, creased skin, and eyes that looked at him with a mixture of sympathy and annoyance.

He swallowed hard, expecting the taste of blood in his mouth, surprised it wasn’t there.

He could hear something now, something that came above the pounding of blood in his ears, but it slipped away in the fog of reality each time he reached for it.

There was another person too, to his right. He swivelled his head that way, eyes still wide. Another woman stood in the aisle, younger than the first, and wearing a blue blazer over a white shirt. A stewardess, he knew, as more of reality seeped in.

“Are you alright, sir?” the stewardess was saying. Yes, that’s what that other noise had been; she had been speaking to him. “Sir? Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he managed, his voice raw in his throat. “What… what happened?”

He ran a hand down his face. His skin was cold to the touch, clammy, and damp from the sweat. He swallowed again. His body was calming now, he knew, but still the fog covered his thoughts, keeping them just out of his reach.

“You had a nightmare, I think,” the stewardess replied. “You were screaming, and nobody could seem to wake you.”

“Are you sure you’re okay, dear?” That from the elderly woman to his left.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he replied. “I just need to wash my face.”

“Alright,” said the stewardess, moving back a pace in the aisle. “But don’t be too long; we’re going to be coming in to land in about ten minutes.”

He muttered something, which was probably an acknowledgement and was taken as one anyway, before undoing the belt and pushing himself out of the tiny seat, easing his way out into the thin aisle that ran from one end of the aircraft to the other, soft green lights along it providing scant illumination. His legs wobbled, almost collapsing under him, and he grabbed the opposite seat for support. The cabin was dark, only a few lights on above seats and most of the shutters pulled down over small windows, but he could see more faces were watching him, some concerned, the majority angered that he had disturbed them. He forced his legs to solidify, but didn’t release his grips on the seats as he made his way towards the bathroom. The engines of the aircraft rumbled in the floor under his feet.

When he closed the toilet door behind him, slipping the lock into place, the light overhead flickered on. Only then did his legs give way, and he had to grip the wash stand to stop himself falling onto the cramped floor in a heap. He closed his eyes, letting out a long breath to stabilise himself, then pushed his body upright.

He didn’t look at the mirror as he filled the basin with hot water, then scooped it with his hands and splashed it over his face. He rubbed his fingers over his skin again, and up into his hair. Only then did he let himself look at his reflection.

Tommy Brogan was a tall man, cresting six foot, with a face he knew many found handsome, with deep blue eyes – so deep they were almost black – and high cheekbones. A few days’ worth of stubble covered his chin and his jawline, all the way up to lanky black hair that hung in curly threads, hair that he’d grown out over the last few months from its usual short and controlled style. He let out another long breath, feeling the warm water seep into his skin, revitalising him. The dream was already fading.

If it had been a dream. There was something of… familiarity to it. That didn’t make sense, but he couldn’t recall enough of it to place the recognition.

He dried his face, before heading back to his cramped chair. It creaked as he lowered himself back into it. The faces that had been watching him before had returned their attentions to the monitors on the backs of the chairs in front of them, their features illuminated by the monitors’ flickering blue light that made angles look sharper.

“Are you sure you’re alright, dear?” asked the woman on his left.

“Just a nightmare,” Tommy said. Then he grinned, the smile settling naturally on his face. “I can’t say I’m surprised; how is anyone supposed to get a decent sleep in these tiny seats?”

The woman returned his smile.

Roughly ten minutes later, the plane landed with no more incidents, then it was another ten minutes for it to taxi in. Tommy spent most of his time staring passed the woman and out of the window at the crisp blue sky, with touches of pink as the sun sank below the horizon, and the stark grey buildings of Heathrow airport. It had been over a decade since he’d been here. Well, probably not here exactly, it had been so long that he couldn’t remember exactly which airport his family had left the country by. He’d imagined all through the flight to the United Kingdom that he’d feel a sense of return, like coming home. But Canada was his home, and although everything he could see out of the small window was familiar, it was also so incredibly foreign.

He waited in his seat until the majority of the other passengers had shuffled slowly towards the exits, then pulled his red rucksack from the overhead compartment, and handed his flying companion hers as well. Then he departed the plane, and heading into the gigantic airport itself.

Following the signs that hung from the high ceilings, he trailed after the large queues of passengers as they made their way deeper and deeper into the structure, more streams of people joining them from other gates. There were people from all walks of life here, from every country, every nation, and every creed. Families, dragging along wailing children who had not been best pleased with the long flights they had been forced to suffer through; holiday makers, both those just beginning their journey, bright eyed and staring at everything around them, and those returning home, their eyes downcast and glum, not looking forward to having to return to the tedium of their working lives; business men and women, their eyes focussed only on their destination, each one of them wearing suits and carrying only what they needed for their short stop in the English capital.

Tommy wasn’t exactly sure where he lay on that spectrum. He wasn’t here on vacation, but then again, he wasn’t exactly sure why he was here either. Work related, that much he knew, but unlike the suits around him, he wore a pair of faded blue jeans, and a thick brown coat buttoned up over a Clash T-Shirt. He really didn’t know what to expect here; all he’d been told by his CO was to board this flight to England, and that someone would be meeting him here. He’d been told to pack enough clothes to last him – without being told how long it would need to last – and that the rest of his things would be sent on after him. That was unsettling, for it told that this was more than likely a permanent reassignment. One he hadn’t asked for, one he hadn’t expected. They couldn’t just up and decide to do this to him. He had tried to argue all these points, and his CO had looked at him with what was dangerously close to sympathy, and then told him in no uncertain terms that he had no choice in the matter. He either accepted this assignment, or he was gone. Dishonourable discharge. That in itself was bullshit, and not at all accurate. He’d taken it up with legal counsel, who told him he had a case since dishonourable discharges were reserved for those found guilty in a court martial, but while Tommy had sat in the man’s office the counsellor had received a phone call. When the counsellor had ended the call, he had told Tommy he would be unable to take the case. So had the next two Tommy had tried.

Then just last night, his CO had shown up at his door, drunk as hell, and begged Tommy to take the plane ticket being pressed into his hand, that Tommy needed to take this assignment if he wanted to know. The CO had not been able to say anything more, despite his drunken state, saying only that Tommy owed him that.

So, with a great deal of disgust – and also, shockingly enough, a great deal of curiosity – Tommy had packed, and took the flight.

He grabbed his larger suitcase from the conveyer belt, before trundling it behind him as he headed to customs. The joint citizenship on his passport had him through that in moments, and then he was in the arrivals lounge.

On the other side of the metal railing were a throng of people, all waiting to collect the new arrivals; friends and family for some, taxi drivers trying to attract the attention of others, and others still with a mixture of hand written signs awaiting specific travellers.

One such sign caught his attention; it was held by an attractive woman, probably around Tommy’s own age, with long mousey hair, understated makeup, and a smart blue work suit. The jacket of her suit was buttoned up at the waist, and the white shirt underneath unbuttoned halfway down her chest, revealing a long sliver of skin. Over the top, she wore a long tan coat that reached down passed her knees. She had a look of annoyed patience, and the sign in her hands read THOMAS BROGAN.

She scowled at him as he approached, trailing his luggage behind him. “Thomas Brogan?” she asked, her accent as close to a stereotypical English accent as Tommy had ever heard outside of a TV show.

“Please,” he replied, “call me Tommy.”

She flicked cool hazel eyes up and down him, examining his casual attire, and clearly finding it at fault. “I’m Monika Wells,” she replied.

“Still Tommy,” he said, throwing her his cheekiest grin, his eyes sparkling.

He held a hand towards her, and she looked at it for a long moment. Then, instead of taking it, she said, “Do you have any more bags?”

“Nope,” he replied, jostling the suitcase behind him. “Just this.” He decided this woman – Wells – wasn’t just a driver sent to ferry him to wherever the hell he was supposed to be going. No, she had that look about her that Tommy had seen the few times he’d been loaned out to joint task forces with government agents. She was looking at him, sure, but he got the feeling that at least as much of her attention was on everything around her too. “I don’t suppose you wanna tell me why I’m here?” he tried.

As soon as he said it, he could tell by the look on Wells’ face that she wasn’t going to answer. But he didn’t care; being uprooted so suddenly had made him as stubborn as a mule. “Look, we can play silent games all you want, but all I know is I get sent here for God knows what reason. And I’m a loyal soldier, I do what my boss tells me. But you’re not my boss, and I’ve just had a really long flight, so I’m not taking another step until you start telling me what is going on.”

Wells’ eyes flared, and he could see her bite off a retort. “This isn’t the place, Mr. Brogan,” she said instead, glaring hotly at him.

“Tommy.”

“But if you follow me, I will take you to someone who will answer all of your questions.” She worded it almost like a request, but Tommy knew an order when he heard one. Wells was clearly used to people doing what she told them to.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if that would stifle the headache this whole situation was giving him. “Fine,” he said. “Lead on.” He gestured towards the exit with a grand, and entirely mocking, flourish, but Wells either didn’t notice it, or just plain ignored it.

When they left the building, the chill of the night air rolled over him. It wasn’t that it was incredibly cold, he’d had colder springs back home, but after the warmth of the plane and the terminal, it was a shock to the system. His breath plumed before his face. He followed Wells – who had pulled a pair of black leather gloves and a thick hat from a pocket of her coat and pulled them on – to a parking structure attached to the terminal, where she unlocked a dark red Audi and popped open the boot for him to store his luggage.

She drove them in silence, despite Tommy’s best attempts at breaking the ice. Deeper and deeper into the depths of London they went, so long that he lost track of their exact direction. The city was like a maze to him; none of the directions they seemed to follow made an actual lick of sense, and he was sure that if his driver were to suddenly stop the car and kick him out, he’d be well and truly screwed.

So instead of trying to draw her out into conversation, or even make sense of where they were heading, he stared out the window at the living, breathing metropolis around him. It had that air of an ancient city that he had found a lot in his missions to Europe; where the roads would follow a winding path that had a more natural feel to those straight and ordered lines of a more modern city. No building appeared to match the one next to it in design, or even the colour of the brick it was made from, and no two appeared to have even built in the same decade. Or probably century, he thought. Domed roofs, sloped roofs, or flat; one floor, or multiple; intricately crafted specimens, all columns and arches, or plain towers that jutted into the sky like ugly grey blocks; they were as different as could be. But there was still a sense of home here, from the bright lights that shone all around him, to the people still milling around on packed sidewalks even this late at night.

He glanced at his watch as a yawn cracked his jaw; it was around 2000hrs local time, which put it around three in the afternoon at home, but the long flight here – especially the nightmare that had made it fraught – meant he was drained, both physically and mentally.

But not drained enough to notice an odd thing Wells did. It was a small thing, a peculiar event that the silent and mysterious woman did every now and again. As she drove, she would randomly extend the little fingers of each hand from where she gripped the steering wheel, just for a fraction of a second. He watched her slender fingers with interest, trying to figure out what that meant.

After the fourth – or maybe the fifth time, he wasn’t sure – he recognised a pattern; each time they passed a motorbike, heading down the other side of the road towards them, her little fingers would extend. A quick glance at Wells’ face revealed she was probably unaware she was doing it.

“What’s that all about?” he asked.

She glanced at him from the coroner of her eyes, her jaw line tight. He could almost imagine he could hear the grinding of her teeth. “What’s what?” she said finally.

“The… you know…” He flicked his fingers out, copying the gesture.

Her eyes flashed down to her own hands briefly, and he saw her tighten her hold on the wheel enough that the leather of her thin gloves creaked. She licked her lips, then the hard edge returned to the set of her features. “Nothing,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”

She did not make the gesture again, no matter how many motorbikes they passed.

The area around them became noticeably more upscale, the architecture uniformly modern. The buildings stretched high into the night sky, all steel and glass. Offices and other places of business for sure. Off to the right, through gaps in office blocks and parking structures, he spotted water, gentle waves rippling on its surface and reflecting back the wavering image of the full moon. He glanced up, picking out the moon when it was visible through the moving skyline, hanging there alone, all other lights in the sky obliterated by the thousands of lights of the city.

It took him a few seconds to realise that Wells was pulling up. She killed the engine, and stepped from the car. He followed her. They had stopped at the side of the street beside a series of thick concrete steps, heavily lined on either side by squat bushes. Wells was taking those steps briskly, stopping at the top by a sign that read Huntington Tower.

That tower loomed there too, stretching towards the very heavens themselves. It had four corners here, at the base, but as the walls – seemingly made of nothing but sheets of tinted glass – rose majestically higher, they curved outward at the front face to meeting at a triangle at the top. To Tommy, it looked for all the world like a gigantic glass blade, jutting out of the belly of the city.

He had no time to gawk longer, as Wells was already stalking towards the entrance of the massive structure, stripping the hat from her head and shaking her hair out. “Come along, Mr Brogan,” she called to him, her voice colder than the air around them.

He watched her a second, then glanced back at the car, then back at her. “So I’ll be unpacking later then?” he called. She did not answer.

The foyer he followed her into was spacious, all green marble and pillars, with large windows that afforded a view back out into the world. A long reception desk dominated the centre of the foyer, behind which were a series of large clock faces, their times all set to different zones. Even now, the reception was manned, though the hard faced receptionist had a look of security. She certainly eyed Tommy with interest, and not the usual sort of interest he was used to from women, but he ignored her as he rushed to catch up with his taciturn host, who had disappeared beyond the reception.

He reached her as she was swiping a card across a reader embedded into one wall that was all burnished glass. A similar wall stood opposite it, not as far away as the full length of the building; the facing mirrors reflected Tommy and Wells’ images onwards towards infinity. Four doorways, two on each side, sat in the walls, made of the shining steel. Elevator doors, he thought to himself, a second before one of them smoothly parted.

“What is this place?” he asked, as Wells entered the elevator.

“In due time, Mr Brogan,” she said.

“Tommy,” he correct absently, following her inside. There were more mirrors inside, but only covering half the walls. The lower halves were a deep green, with intricate patterns that seemed to speak of branches at one instant, and rolling waves at the next. A long metal rail ran along the join, extended from the wall. Wells gripped it, facing the doors as they slide smoothly closed. The elevator was filled with the soft tones of The Girl From Ipanema.

Nothing happened for a moment. There was a sense of… expectation? As if Wells were waiting for something to happen. The seconds ticked on.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, blinking in realisation. “There’s no buttons.”

Wells gave a quick grunt. He was sure it sounded surprised, as if he’d passed some sort of test.

She pressed her now bare hand against the wall, the spot indistinguishable from the rest. The walls gave a beep, and a thin green line scanned her palm. Her nails, Tommy noted, were cut close.

“Wells,” she said suddenly, though not to him. “Authorisation code zero-one-seven-foxtrot.” She eyed him thoughtfully then, as if weighing something in her mind. Then she added, “One additional.”

“Confirmed,” said a disembodied female voice, floating in the ether. The voice did not sound like an automated reply, nor did it seem to issue from a speaker. If he hadn’t know better, he would have said the voice had come from inside the elevator with them. But that was ridiculous.

The elevator began to climb. Up and up and up and up, it went. There were no readings for Tommy to look at, to see just exactly how high they had gone, but the journey seemed to last for long minutes, with nothing but the gently music to accompany them. We must be nearing the top, he reasoned.

Then, finally, there was a ping, and the elevator came to a halt. The doors parted, and Wells was already stepping out. Tommy followed her.